


30 Day OTP Porn Challenge - Mycroft/Sherlock

by chasingriver



Series: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge (replaced by the series "30 Day OTP Porn Challenge - Mycroft/Sherlock") [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Anal Sex, Autofellatio, Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I decided I wanted a kinkier version of the 30 Day OTP Challenge, so I wrote one. The prompts can be found <a href="http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/39525363882/30-day-otp-porn-challenge">here</a>. My entries will not necessarily be daily or consecutive. (You do want me to update my other story updates, right?) But I will try and get them done as quickly as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 2: "Awkward sex / things that don't go as planned"

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted these separately in the series ["30 Day OTP Challenge - Sherlock/Mycroft"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/35329) and I'll be updating them there from now on (anything after Day 7). The chapters were getting too unwieldy at >4000 words each, and the tags (since they are by story, not chapter) were useless.

Sherlock tapped away on his laptop, determined not to make eye contact with John. In the past ten minutes, John had stormed around the flat in a huff, and then he'd collapsed into his chair and read the newspaper with such force that Sherlock seriously feared for the structural integrity of the paper. Worse still, it looked like he was gearing up for a second round of flat-storming. Any eye contact was just asking for trouble, as he'd doubtless be on the receiving end of a lengthy rant about the Perils of Dating.

He was just about to contact Mycroft when his mobile vibrated with a new text.

_Has John left yet? MH_

_No. She stood him up and he's sulking. Loudly. SH_

_Oh Lord. Which one? MH_

_The teacher one, I think. I can never keep track. SH_

_Make an excuse and come over here then. MH_

_Send a car. SH_

_Of course. Five minutes. MH_

"Molly has some new tissue samples she wants me to examine," he said, without making eye contact.

"Now? She doesn't usually work the night shift."

"I think she's filling in for someone. Must run; she said they need them soon. I'll be back later."

"Want me to come with you?"

 _Not unless you'd like to have sex with Mycroft. Not as if I'd let you._ "No, I'll be fine. Back soon." He gave John a tight smile and grabbed his coat and scarf. He didn't even bother to put them on as he dashed down the stairs, worried that John would decide to follow him.

He glanced at his phone as he put on his coat in the front hallway. _Four more minutes._ John would expect him to hail a taxi, not wait on the pavement for an unmarked black car. With any luck, he wouldn't look out the window, but his luck tonight hadn't gone particularly well. John had seen to that.

They _always_ met at Mycroft's townhouse. He'd just wanted to indulge in the novelty of sex in his own bed for a change. John's atrocious luck with dating and his determination to follow Sherlock around London like a homeless puppy made that an increasingly rare option. _It's alright for Mycroft. He doesn't have a flatmate to evade._

He closed the front door behind him and stood in the entrance. If John looked out now, he'd be beyond his line of sight. _Three minutes._ If a car pulled up outside the flat though, John was sure to look out of the window. _Better to have the car meet me on the next road down._ He hurried down the road, as close to the buildings as he could manage, and texted Mycroft.

_Have the car turn onto Melcome. I'll meet it there. SH_

_It's stuck in traffic. Another ten minutes at most. Wait in the station, I don't want you to freeze. Sorry. MH_

_Your concern is touching, but I'd rather freeze than endure the teeming masses. You know I avoid the tube like the plague. SH_

_If someone gave you samples of the plague, I suspect you'd be at Barts, analysing them. Still, point taken. I'll meet you on Melcome. MH_

Sherlock read the text twice. Mycroft was actually _in_ the car? That was almost unheard of.

His phone buzzed again.

_Surprised? MH_

Sherlock smiled.

_A little. You never meet me in the car. SH_

_It's been a long week. I want all the time we can get. MH_

_I am not having sex in a car. SH_

_I certainly never suggested we should. My bed is far more comfortable. I just wanted to see you. MH_

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. Half of him wanted to shoot back some biting remark about sentiment, and the other half thrilled to its rare display. It took him longer than usual to compose his reply. Mycroft would notice. He couldn't deny that he wanted to see him just as badly, but he didn't want to come right out and say it, either.

_Agreed. SH_

That should be sufficiently vague.

He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck to seal out the cold.

_Almost there. MH_

Sherlock peered back down Baker Street and could make out the dark shape of the chauffeured car, waiting in the line of traffic for the lights to change.

When it pulled up, he quickly opened the door and got inside.

Mycroft awaited him with a warm smile. "Hello," he said, softly.

"Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock smiled back at him, glad to finally be together.

There was no trace of the bickering and cynicism they displayed around others, just a fondness they never let anyone else see.

"The whole evening has been a bit of a disaster, hasn't it? I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you wanted to meet at yours."

Sherlock shrugged. "I feel as though I should apologise, except that it's entirely John's fault. Well, his girlfriend's fault, really. Perhaps you could find him a better girlfriend." He'd meant it as a joke, but they simultaneously stilled and squinted their eyes in thought.

"That's really not a bad idea, but I'll deal with that later." He pulled Sherlock in closer and gave him a soft kiss. "It's nice to see you."

Mycroft's lips were warm and Sherlock pulled him back in for another kiss. "Mmm," he agreed. Sherlock eventually pulled away and leaned up against him, enjoying the warmth and Mycroft's mildly intoxicating scent: fine wool and expensive cologne.

Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh as the car darted through traffic, back towards Kensington. With one finger, he idly traced patterns on his brother's trousers.

After a few minutes, Sherlock abruptly stilled his hand.

Mycroft looked up, concerned, but Sherlock just smiled as he moved Mycroft's hand much further up his thigh in a clear invitation.

"I thought you didn't want to have sex in a car?"

"Unless your definition of 'sex' has gotten awfully comprehensive, Mycroft, I think we're fine. Besides, we're almost there; not even you can get me off _that_ quickly."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

Mycroft's hand brushed teasingly across his crotch and Sherlock arched up to meet it. His brother capitulated and Sherlock moaned at the deliciously firm pressure Mycroft applied to his groin.

"Don't get too excited, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice low and dark. He nipped at Sherlock's ear, then added teasingly, "We do have to look like _brothers_ when we go into my flat." His hand kept moving, and Sherlock had no intention of stopping it.

"We _are_ brothers," he replied in a rough voice. "We're just not _normal_."

Mycroft's mouth was doing delicious things to his neck when his phone buzzed with a text message.

They both ignored it.

Thirty seconds later, it buzzed again.

Sherlock fumbled for it in his pocket and tossed it to the other side of the car.

They went back to their kissing, but when the phone rang a minute later, neither of them was surprised.

"Bloody hell! One night. Is that so much to ask?" Sherlock fumed, before he found the phone and retrieved it from the floor. His voice was calm and a study in boredom as he answered, "Yes?"

"It's John. Are you at Barts yet? Lestrade just called and he wants us to meet him at a murder scene. I have the address."

"Text it to me. I'll meet you there." He disconnected.

"It's fine," Mycroft started, although the disappointment in his eyes and tone of voice told a different story.

"No, it's not," Sherlock replied with a devious smile. "I refuse to let him completely ruin our evening. I didn't say _when_ I'd meet him, and _we_ just pulled up at your flat. I'd say 'the vagaries of London traffic' earn us at least a half hour of vigorous sex on that comfortable bed of yours before I have to go anywhere."


	2. Day 3 - Body Fluids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: deklava
> 
>  **Warnings** : sibling incest

Sherlock straightened his black bow-tie in the mirror and removed the tuxedo jacket from its hanger on the back of the bathroom door. _At least it's not tails_ , he thought. He didn't have a problem with ridiculously formal occasions, but those usually took place at the manor. There, he had the cupboard space for this sort of thing. Here in the flat, the tuxedo risked interaction with all kinds of dangers: his latest decomposition experiment in the kitchen for one. It was best to get dressed and leave the flat as quickly as possible. Even a quick email check on his laptop was a bad idea - cuffs dragging through God-knows-what. Mrs Hudson really needed to do a better job with that.

John had a cup of tea in his hand and was about to sit in his chair as Sherlock walked into the living room. He reared his head in surprise. "Where the hell are you going? I thought we were ordering takeout tonight. I didn't realise there was a dress code."

"I'm off to the opera with Mycroft. I'm sure I told you."

"I'm sure you didn't," John said with exasperation. "So it's just me for dinner then?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Why are you going? You don't even _like_ opera. And I'm surprised you want to spend three hours with Mycroft at one. Is there a section just for bickering?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can be quiet when the occasion demands it, John. Besides, I'm not doing it for Mycroft; I'm doing it for Mummy. She bought the tickets." He gave John a wry smile, and continued, "She hopes it will bring us closer together." _If only she knew,_ he thought with amusement.

"Well, good luck with that," John snorted. "What are you going to see?"

"Um, I'm not sure… something Italian I think."

"Well, it's nice to see you so interested in the arts," John said, with a trace of sarcasm.

"Right. Well, I'm off. I'll be back late."

Mycroft met him with the car. As the chauffeur closed the door, Mycroft gave him an appreciative glance. "Well, don't you look dashing," he murmured. "You should dress up more often. It suits you."

"Thank you, Mycroft. You look rather 'dashing' yourself, but then you've always done the suit thing better than I have. What is it we're going to see again? John asked, and I had no idea."

Mycroft sighed. " _La Traviata_. I did tell you, you know."

"I'm sure you did, but I clearly don't need to remember it when you'll tell me again, do I? Look, do we really have to go? Can't we just lie and say we went?"

"I promised Mummy we'd go. I'm sure there will be a test afterwards. We have a box, though."

"Your point being?"

"It'll be just the two of us. I'm sure we can find _something_ entertaining to do during the slow parts."

Sherlock laughed. "Slow parts? I thought you enjoyed opera."

"I do. But there are always slow parts."

The car dropped them off outside the opera house, and they blended into the crowd of well-heeled socialites in evening gowns and distinguished-looking gentlemen in formal wear.

Sherlock muttered things under his breath as they passed certain couples. _Mistress. Drunk. Prostitute. Gay. Drunk. Drunk. High. Wishes he was high. Wishes he was gay._

Mycroft stifled a laugh and somehow managed to kick him without breaking stride. "Hush," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock murmured, "let me have a little fun."

"Later," he replied, with a knowing look.

They both got a glass of Lagavulin at the bar and made their way to the box seats.

The opera hall was very old and very traditional in its design. Its box seats afforded both privacy and prime people-watching opportunities. Mycroft pulled the curtain closed behind them.

"See, I told you they were good seats."

Sherlock observed the throngs below and commented on the various couples. Mycroft had no objections, now that they were out of earshot, and he joined in with deductions of his own. "New money; the jewellery's all wrong. See that one? She's here with her boyfriend. She doesn't realise her husband is here with his. That might be an interesting scene in the foyer later."

Sherlock just stared at him. "Alright, the wife is obvious, but how do you know her husband is here when she doesn't even know?"

"I work with him. He's just over there."

Sherlock grinned. "Ah."

The lights finally dimmed and the opera began.

Sherlock inched his chair closer to Mycroft's.

"Don't get too close, Sherlock; the people on the other side of the hall can see us," Mycroft whispered.

"Why should I care?"

"Because they're all insufferable gossips, and it will get back to Mummy and my employers."

"Well then, I suppose I'll just have to be subtle, won't I?"

Mycroft let out a quiet huff. "That'll be the day." As the orchestra launched into the overture, he added, "Have you ever played any Verdi? I miss hearing you practise."

"Stop trying to change the subject."

"I wasn't. You should bring your violin to the house sometimes."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "Mm, because 'quick visits to the morgue to assist Molly' would _definitely_ require my violin. It's hard enough to come up with believable excuses to see you as it is."

"Well, the next time John goes off to some conference, I think we should take full advantage of it."

Sherlock's look softened, and he nodded. "Yes, they're too few and far between, if you ask me." He slouched down in his chair a little. "How long does this thing go on?"

"It's a good hour and a half until the intermission. I recommend you sip your scotch."

"I can think of better things to do with my mouth."

Mycroft swallowed, and then replied in a slow whisper, "As much as I would _dearly_ love that, you know we can't. Stop being a tease."

"No sense of adventure. For all they know, I could be retying my shoelace."

"For ten minutes? With your head bobbing up and down in my lap?"

"Five, at most," Sherlock replied with a grin. "Probably less."

"Still a bit thorough for a shoelace, don't you think?"

He shrugged and placed his hand on Mycroft's thigh. "Subtle it is, then." His long fingers skimmed over the fine cloth of Mycroft's trousers as he inched his hand towards his brother's groin.

"That's not particularly subtle."

"You're right, it's not." Sherlock took his hand away, which earned him a quick look of disappointment before Mycroft caught himself.

He sat and tried to be interested in the opera for as long as he could stand it. Mycroft mostly kept his eyes on the stage, but Sherlock noticed every fleeting glance his brother cast in his direction.

He finally gave in to his urges; he didn't think Mycroft would mind. He carefully shifted in his seat and worked his hand onto the small of Mycroft's back. His brother adjusted to give him a little more room.

"Is that subtle enough for you?" Sherlock whispered with a smile.

"Perhaps a little too subtle, although God knows I never thought I'd live to say that about _you_."

Sherlock tried to negotiate the maze of tuxedo jacket, waistcoat, and shirt in order to find the warm skin of his brother's lower back. If he'd been standing, it might have been possible, but sitting down, there was no chance. He huffed in frustration and pulled his hand back.

"Giving up so easily, Sherlock?"

"Of course not. I'm just going to go with 'less subtle'."

They both smiled.

The orchestra reached a conveniently rambunctious portion of the score, and Sherlock used the ambient noise to cover his fumblings with Mycroft's waistcoat and trousers. He slid his hand between the folds of trouser fabric only to encounter his brother's silk boxers. Rolling his eyes, he worked his hand underneath the waistband and finally found the hot, silky skin of Mycroft's cock. He was already half-hard.

"Enjoying the opera, Mycroft?" he said, teasingly.

"Something like that."

If his rapidly hardening length was any indication, Sherlock's ministrations were far more enjoyable.

Sherlock slowly moved his hand along the shaft, pausing to rub small circles with his thumb just beneath the head.

Mycroft shifted awkwardly in his seat, so Sherlock simply tightened his grasp.

"Sit still and pay attention, Mycroft. Didn't you say there'd be a test later? I'm sure you don't want to miss anything."

"Bastard," Mycroft muttered.

A large bead of pre-ejaculate had gathered at the tip of his cock, and Sherlock used his thumb to smear it across the head. The orchestra conveniently masked Mycroft's small gasp.

It wasn't his favourite way to bring Mycroft to orgasm; he much preferred his brother's cock down his throat. But he _was_ good at this. The slick fluid eased the way for his hand, and he palmed the head of it, twisting his hand over the sensitive skin of the glans and using his fingers to stimulate the corona. He flicked one finger across his fraenulum, and his brother's hips jerked involuntarily. He'd been assiduously avoiding eye contact; they were supposed to be _pretending_ to watch the opera, after all. Mycroft's reaction was just too much though; he had to look, if only for a second.

He rarely saw Mycroft undone, and never in public. Mycroft's fingers grasped the edges of the chair so tightly that all the blood had gone out of them, and he was biting his bottom lip in an effort to remain silent. Sherlock smiled to himself; if he remembered this piece correctly, the orchestra should be transitioning into a quiet section any second now. And he knew his brother well enough to recognise the signs of an impending orgasm. He guessed Mycroft was too far gone to know where they were in the orchestral score, and he gave him the few long, hard strokes that sent him over the edge… just as the orchestra dropped to nothing.

He allowed himself another quick look. Mycroft's eyes had rolled back and his eyelids fluttered; his limbs were rigid and his hips bucked into Sherlock's hands one final time as he came violently, all over his boxers and Sherlock's hand. He never made a sound, and anyone viewing him from the waist up would have only wondered at the odd eye movements and the bitten lip. The hall was too dim to notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead and his flushed cheeks. It had probably taken almost as much effort to remain silent as it had for Sherlock to give him the orgasm in the first place.

Mycroft sat there for a few long minutes as he tried to compose himself. Sherlock left his hand where it was - covered in spunk and palming his brother's cock. When his breathing finally returned to normal, Mycroft leaned over to Sherlock and whispered, "You knew the quiet movement was up next, didn't you." It wasn't even a question, and Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer. He just smiled.

"Don't I get a thank you? A handkerchief would be nice, as well. I forgot to bring one."

"Mm, thank you. It was lovely, Sherlock; the best opera I've seen in ages. But a handkerchief? I think not. I believe your little ploy with the timing demands a forfeit."

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

"You're so fond of using your mouth - I want you to suck your fingers clean. And I suggest you be rather quick about it; I believe it's almost time for the intermission." He gave Sherlock a wicked smile.

Sherlock shot him a glare, but his heart wasn't in it. Quite the opposite; just the idea was making his cock twitch with interest. He carefully removed his hand from Mycroft's trousers and placed one finger at a time in his mouth, slowly sucking the still-warm fluid from each one and letting his cheeks hollow a little with the suction.

Mycroft gaped at him, and then he realised his mouth was open and abruptly closed it. "Jesus, Sherlock, at least pretend to tie your shoelace or something. You look like you're sucking on a lolly."

"You're the one who wouldn't let me borrow the handkerchief," Sherlock smirked, and snaked his hand back into Mycroft's trousers to retrieve some more. "At least let me finish the job." He wrapped his hand around Mycroft's softening cock, wiping it clean of the remaining semen. This time, he did bend over slightly to make his finger-sucking less obvious; he'd already succeeded in mortifying his brother - there was no point in jeopardising either of them any further, just to belabour the point.

"You seem to be enjoying that," Mycroft whispered.

"And why shouldn't I? You taste delicious."

Mycroft busied himself with the complicated task of returning his tuxedo to a presentable appearance. "I think the boxers are a lost cause," he muttered.

"Something to remember me by," Sherlock countered with a grin.

He started to wipe his hand dry on his trousers, but Mycroft grabbed his wrist. "No, don't. Bring your hand up near your face… there. Can you still smell it? Just faintly?"

Sherlock gave his brother an incandescent grin. "I do. And you're a complete perv."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," Mycroft replied, smirking. "I dare you not to wash your hands until the opera is finished - but you have to go out and mingle at intermission. Sow my wild oats with a few well-placed handshakes."

Sherlock almost snorted with delight. "I do love to meet new people."


	3. Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's loss is Sherlock's gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: deklava  
> Warnings: sibling incest

Mycroft sat at his dining room table and watched Sherlock make short work of a very nice piece of fish and some salad greens.

"You're really not bad at this cooking thing, Mycroft," he said, sounding surprised. "It does make a change."

"Eating, you mean?"

"Well, eating real food. John isn't much for cooking."

"And I don't suppose _you_ ever do any."

Sherlock just snorted.

They'd met at Mycroft's townhouse on a Friday evening. John had gone to stay with Harry for the weekend, and Sherlock hadn't enquired any further than that. Dinner finished, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked smug.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I did today?"

"Did it involve something other than pestering that lovely Detective Inspector?"

"He phones me, not the other way around," Sherlock countered, a little too quickly.

Mycroft just smiled. Easy bait. He knew all the weaknesses in Sherlock's armour, and sometimes Sherlock practically begged to have them exploited. It kept his arrogance from becoming completely overwhelming. "Sorry, Sherlock. What did you do today?"

Sherlock's features still bore the beginnings of a sulk, but the question lured him out and he gave Mycroft a grin. He walked over to the coat rack and dug through his pockets, pulling out a pair of shiny handcuffs with a flourish.

Mycroft groaned and cradled his face in his hands. "Stealing his badges isn't interesting enough anymore?"

"Oh, come on, Mycroft. At least I can _use_ these."

Mycroft looked up with interest. "Precisely what do you mean by _that_ , Sherlock? Are you running an experiment on bruising patterns?"

Sherlock looked slightly flustered. "No. It's just… well, John had bookmarked a few sites on his laptop, and some of them involved handcuffs." He stood a little straighter and seemed to gain some confidence. "I thought we could try them."

Mycroft met his gaze and held it. He stayed silent for just a little longer than necessary before he replied, in very even tones, "Did you, now?" He punctuated the end with a slightly raised brow.

Sherlock broke his gaze and started to pace the room.

"Stop." One word, in a quiet yet commanding tone.

Sherlock immediately froze in his tracks.

Mycroft walked towards him, very slowly, not breaking eye contact.

"How, exactly, did you imagine we'd use them, Sherlock?" His brother's body language screamed equal parts doubt and nervous excitement. Sherlock chewed frantically at his lower lip even as he struggled to control his breathing. Mycroft reached his brother and continued walking. Sherlock turned to face him, and Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't move." Once again, Sherlock froze.

This development fascinated him. Sherlock had never shown any sort of submissive tendencies, certainly not overt ones. Mycroft had long ignored his brother's irritating desire to be in control of every situation, dismissing it as a defence mechanism. What if Sherlock actually _wanted_ exactly the opposite?

He stood directly behind him - not touching him at all, but leaning in so close that his lips almost brushed Sherlock's ear. "Tell me," he whispered, "did you want me to use them on _you_?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. The silence was deafening.

Mycroft coaxed the handcuffs from Sherlock's right hand. He seemed to almost have forgotten that they were there.

He took the cold steel rings and ran them gently over his brother's cheekbone. Once again, Sherlock moved to face him. "Stop." Sherlock immediately obeyed. This was fascinating indeed. He tried to recall the last thing that had silenced Sherlock this effectively. He raised an eyebrow in surprise when he remembered: it had been the first time he'd returned Sherlock's sexual advances.

_Well._

_You learn something new every day._

He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and turned him so they faced each other.

"Would you like me to restrain you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What did you have in mind? One wrist manacled to the headboard? Or perhaps your arms cuffed behind your back as I take you on your knees?" He kept his words soft and quiet; the images they conjured up in Sherlock's mind would be more than loud enough.

His brother whimpered slightly.

Mycroft placed his hand at the small of Sherlock's back and guided him towards the bedroom.

"Sit on the bed."

He cupped Sherlock's face with his hand. "If you change your mind about this, at any time, just tell me."

Sherlock nodded.

He held out the cuffs for Sherlock to see. "While I'm sure the images on John's computer were compelling, these aren't the best things for bondage. They can cause horrible bruising."

"How on earth would _you_ know?"

Mycroft smiled. Sherlock had once again found his tongue.

"University was very educational. In many ways. Don't worry, I have other things we can use. Give me a minute."

He'd never been entirely sure why he'd kept his leather gear; he still had a full set of cuffs, a couple of collapsible spreader bars, even a body harness. Not to mention the toys. He smiled to himself; he couldn't imagine wearing the body harness these days, but Sherlock would probably look spectacular in it. He retrieved the plastic storage bin from behind the row of neatly-hung suits. He'd kept it around… well, mostly in the hope that he'd be able to use it again one day, he supposed. And now it seemed as if that was a distinct possibility.

He removed the wrist cuffs and a snap hook from the bin. He thought for a second and also grabbed a leather belt. Then he stepped back into the bedroom. He handed the leather cuffs to Sherlock, who examined them.

"These are _yours_?" he asked, incredulously. "You never told me…" he trailed off.

Mycroft smiled. "You never asked," he replied.

"Right." He blinked.

"So, do you still want to do this?" It was a valid question. He wasn't sure how _he'd_ respond, should he find out that Sherlock had an extensive background in bondage and leather, as unlikely as that was.

Sherlock gave him one of those dazzling grins. "Of course," he replied, and started unbuckling the leather cuffs.

_Of course._

It took Sherlock less than a minute to completely undress. It only took that long because Mycroft admonished him for dropping his clothes in a heap and made him fold them neatly. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the scolding, and Mycroft wondered how he'd failed to pick up on this for all these years. He silently thanked Lestrade for his inability to hold on to his handcuffs.

Sherlock reclined on the bed, propped up with his elbows at his sides. His usual arrogant expression was back, but Mycroft sensed an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Leaving his own clothes on, he crawled onto the bed. He pushed Sherlock completely onto his back, then grasped his wrists and pinned them above his head. Sherlock moaned a little and ground his hips up against Mycroft's. Mycroft smiled and kissed him. Hard. When Sherlock kissed back with just as much intensity and writhed beneath him, his concerns about Sherlock's desire to participate vanished.

Mycroft knelt astride Sherlock's chest and fastened a padded leather cuff to each of his thin wrists. Then he clipped the cuffs together, looped the belt between Sherlock's arms so that it rested against the clip, and secured it around the bedpost. He climbed off the bed and pulled Sherlock's body down so that his arms were stretched tightly above his head.

He'd been meaning to get undressed, of course, but seeing Sherlock like that - stretched out, tied up, and achingly hard - utterly derailed his train of thought. Blinding explosion. No survivors. He stood there and gaped in awe for a few long seconds.

Sherlock roused him out of his trance with a, "Well?"

"Wha…?" Mycroft replied, a little dazed.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

"You have no idea…" he swallowed. "No idea how you _look_ right now." Seeing Sherlock like this was affecting him far more than he thought it would. In _far_ more sexual ways.

"If your complete lack of coherence is anything to go by, I think I do. Now get undressed already and fuck me."

"Don't be rude," he retorted, but he was already pulling his clothes off as fast as he could.

He climbed back onto the bed and straddled Sherlock's legs. "I think you should be a little more polite when you're at my mercy like this," he teased. "I might decide not to fuck you at all. Perhaps I'll just take your mouth and let you sort yourself out."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," he said, and started to move towards Sherlock's chest.

"You're right," Sherlock cut in, quickly. "I should have been more polite."

"Hm, that's what I thought," Mycroft replied, smiling. "Perhaps you'd like to try now?"

"Get undressed already and fuck me… please?" he said, coyly, mimicking his earlier statement.

"You'll get what I give you, Sherlock. After all, I don't see that you can do much from that position."

Sherlock tested the bonds around his wrists and twisted underneath him, but Mycroft's body held his legs firmly in place.

"I have other plans," Mycroft said, and rubbed his fingers teasingly over Sherlock's engorged cock. Shifting forward slightly, he lined up their cocks, then held out his hand in front of Sherlock's mouth. He instinctively sucked in two fingers, liberally coating them with saliva. "I'm sure you can figure out what they involve." Sherlock nodded, and licked a wet stripe up Mycroft's palm. "Good boy," Mycroft purred.

He wrapped his slick hand around both their cocks and started stroking. _God, yes. This is what I needed._ He was entirely too far gone already to fuck him. It would have been over as soon as he'd pushed his cock inside his brother's arse. This was perfect though: the pressure from his hand combined with the slick rub of his brother's cock against his own felt like heaven. Sherlock's moans and undulating body seemed to indicate that he felt the same way.

It didn't take long before they both came in thick spurts over Mycroft's fist. Mycroft wiped his hand off on his own stomach and then leaned down to kiss him. "Good?"

"Mm," Sherlock replied hazily, and Mycroft leaned over him and undid the cuffs from his wrists. "I'd like to do that again, sometime," he added.

"Oh, we will be," Mycroft replied with a grin, thrilled that he could share this with his brother.


	4. Day 5 - Breath Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock inadvertently discovers breath play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret including 'breath play' in the original list of prompts. It can be dangerous and I should have been thinking more about that when I made the list. That's why I changed the original list to contain 'nipple play' for Day 5 instead of 'breath play'.
> 
> For more information on why breath play can be dangerous, see Jay Wiseman's essay on it [here](http://www.jaywiseman.com/SEX_BDSM_Breath_Medical_Realities.php). Jay Wiseman is a BDSM non-fiction author.
> 
> That said, I did address the safety issue somewhat, so I decided to publish it. However, there is a fair amount of angst with the porn, so you've been warned.
> 
> Beta: deklava
> 
>  **Warnings** : sibling incest

The first time they did it, it was completely inadvertent.

John was still off at Harry's, and Mycroft had come round for the evening. They'd had some tea - Mycroft had insisted - then dispensed with the rest of the pleasantries and gone straight to the bedroom. Their couplings were infrequent enough, and precious enough, that neither of them wanted to waste time with idle chat.

Sherlock had ended up on his hands and knees with Mycroft knelt behind him, fucking him so hard he thought he might split in half. Not that he minded; he was the one begging for more.

Each time Mycroft's balls slapped against his skin; each time he felt that glorious rub across his gland, he grunted his appreciation. He wasn't even aware of it, he just wanted more. Harder. Now.

Mycroft took Sherlock's slick cock in his hand. Every thrust sent it sliding through Mycroft's fist, bringing him even closer.

And apparently making him even louder.

Afterwards, he'd deny he'd been that loud, but he knew he probably had been.

"God, My, harder; I'm so close!"

"Hush! Do you want Mrs Hudson in here?"

He didn't care _who_ came in at that moment. He just wanted more. He finally felt the hot tight spring uncurl in his gut, and let out a rough scream of pleasure.

Mycroft clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth as he came, in an effort to keep him quiet.

Except he hadn't covered his mouth, exactly. He'd covered both his mouth and his nose, and Sherlock couldn't breathe. He reflexively sucked against Mycroft's palm, but his brother was in the throes of his own orgasm, and he failed to notice.

Not that Sherlock cared. The orgasm ripped through him, and each shuddering, breathless pulse of it felt like a warm blanket of white noise. It felt like flying. It felt utterly incredible. And it felt like it went on for much longer than it actually did.

Mycroft took his hand off Sherlock's mouth immediately after he'd come, and the oxygen hit Sherlock's brain like bright sunlight as he sucked in a lungful of air. As they both collapsed into a messy heap on the bed, Mycroft realised what he'd done.

"Oh my God. Are you alright? I didn't realise."

Sherlock nodded, still wearing a slightly stupid smile. "Hypoxia," he said. "I'd never thought of applying it to sex."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Mycroft swore, very uncharacteristically. "Look, just because you got off on it doesn't make it a good idea. It's dangerous."

His stupid smile got even wider. "You know how much I enjoy 'dangerous'."

Mycroft rolled over and pinned him to the bed. "We're not doing it again, do you understand?" His voice was firm and serious, and Sherlock could care less.

"Who said anything about 'we'? I do understand the concept of masturbation, you know."

"Oh, God," Mycroft said, in a despairing voice. "No, Sherlock, you can die that way." He stared at him and his brows creased in frustration. "Look. If we do this together - _sometimes_ \- do you promise me you won't do it by yourself? _Ever_?"

He rolled his eyes. Mycroft was right of course; it was dangerous. Hypoxia could induce euphoria, and apparently one hell of an orgasm, but it could also lead to accidental death. Solitary play probably wasn't the _best_ idea.

"Fine," he agreed with a sigh. "I promise."

* * *

The next time, Sherlock had asked - almost pleaded - to try it again.

They were on their sides; Mycroft lay curled behind him, with a strong arm wrapped over his shoulder and across his chest, holding him in place as he pounded into him. This time, as he started to come, Mycroft pulled his arm more tightly against the side of Sherlock's neck.

 _Restriction of blood flow through the carotid artery reduces oxygen flow to the brain and causes a buildup of carbon dioxide,_ he thought in one long rush of words, as the warmth and noise enveloped him and his vision dimmed at the edges, and he came, hard.

Mycroft wasn't normally chatty after sex, but this time, he was downright pensive.

"What's wrong, Mycroft?" He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"Look…" he sighed. "I've read up on this. It's just not safe. It can cause PVCs that could lead to cardiac arrest, and the buildup of carbon dioxide can cause potentially fatal blood pH issues. We can't do this. I don't care how low the odds are. I'd be devastated if I lost you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I'd caused it."

It was pretty much the answer he'd expected. He'd found the same data.

They both lay there in silence for a long time. Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Alright. But there's something I still want you to do."

Mycroft gave him a puzzled look.

"It wasn't _entirely_ the rush of it. I'd like you to just put your hand on my neck sometimes, when we're having sex. It makes me feel… I don't know, like I'm giving you control."

Mycroft's face registered surprise, but he just nodded. "Of course."

* * *

They never did experiment with it again. They both discovered that sensation-induced endorphins were just as much fun and didn't have the risks.

But Sherlock still wore his scarf pulled through in a loop, and sometimes, when he was having a miserable day, he'd tighten it just enough so he could pretend it was his brother's warm palm encircling his throat.


	5. Day 6 - Corsets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock buys Mycroft an unexpected birthday present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: deklava  
> Warnings: sibling incest  
> For DeathByGatiss, who really wanted Mycroft in a corset.

"Is this an awkward attempt at humour, Sherlock?"

He peered over the birthday card containing the gift certificate for a custom corset. _Your attempts at provocation are certainly getting more creative_ , he thought.

"Not at all, Mycroft. I merely think your wardrobe could benefit from a little diversity."

"How so?"

"You have _seen_ your wardrobe, haven't you?"

"There's nothing wrong with my suits."

"No. You look very nice in them. You also look like you've walked out of the 19th century. And since the men in those days also wore corsets, I thought you might enjoy one."

Mycroft frowned at his brother and waited for further comment. There usually _was_ further comment, when it came to Sherlock.

"It was either that or a pair of high heels," he finally added, with a trace of sarcasm.

_Ah, there it is._

"I'm surprised at you, Sherlock. Didn't you consider the possibility of both? I believe they'd go well together."

He enjoyed the brief look of shock on his brother's face before it snapped back into a mask of boredom. "I'm sure it could be arranged."

"Lovely. Do let me know when I need to be there, and," he added without a trace of sarcasm, "thank you for such a thoughtful gift."

Sherlock gave him an awkward smile, as if not sure what to make of the entire discussion.

Once his brother had left, he sat down with a cup of tea and considered their conversation. Did the gift stem from some desire on Sherlock's part, or was it simple provocation? Sherlock's relative inexperience made the former unlikely, unless he'd discovered some of the more creative parts of the internet. Provocation seemed to be the only motivation. He'd probably expected him to turn red and sputter something about the whole thing being completely inappropriate.

The first rule of negotiating with Sherlock was to keep him off balance.

And that's what this was, whether Sherlock realised it or not - a negotiation. One that Mycroft was willing to play to its logical conclusion. Carrying on a sparring match with his brother was similar to improvisational drama: always say 'yes'. Especially when he's expecting 'no'.

The moment he saw the gift certificate, he decided to say 'yes'; Sherlock wouldn't expect it. His second thought had been 'Why not?' It seemed like it could be interesting. He'd never done it before.

Mycroft had grown up entirely too fast in some respects. He'd turned thirty-five on the day of his twenty-first birthday. He never participated in university bashes or the endless nights of stag parties; getting pissed and dressing in drag. He wasn't particularly fond of heavy drinking, and he certainly didn't want fodder for the tabloids, which would either embarrass Mummy or sabotage his career. Or both.

When Sherlock had sarcastically suggested the heels, he'd been equally pragmatic. His legs were lightly muscled and toned; certainly nothing to be ashamed of. A pair of heels would accentuate them nicely. Just because he'd never considered the option didn't mean he was averse to the idea. After all, if he planned to have a corset made, it barely seemed like a stretch, fashion-wise.

By entertaining the idea, Sherlock's joke at his expense had been effectively neutralised. _At worst, I'll end up with an interesting experience. At best? Who knows. Possibly a new kink._

Mycroft rang the doorbell at a well-kept but otherwise unassuming brick townhouse in Camden.

A slender brunette, dressed conservatively in a tailored shirt and trousers, answered the door.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes," she nodded in greeting to both of them. "I'm Ms McLayne. Please do come in."

She led them into a sitting area containing, at its centre, a large rectangular table about waist height. The glass top revealed several different types of corsets laying on black velvet just beneath its surface.

Mycroft glanced at them and realised the 'table' was more accurately a large flat file, with four more deep drawers stacked beneath the 'display' drawer.

"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing towards a sofa and two chairs. "May I get you something to drink?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you. Milk, one sugar."

"Nothing for me," replied Sherlock.

"I'll be back in a moment. Please feel free to browse the book or the samples." She nodded towards the large table.

They wandered over and peered through the glass at the corsets. Most were constructed from richly pattered silk brocade in jewel tones. They seemed to be evenly divided between the traditionally female, over-bust styles, and under-bust styles more appropriate for men.

"These are quite lovely," Mycroft murmured in appreciation. He pulled out the drawer and ran his fingers across a burgundy one with a cream filigree pattern. "Not unlike a nice tie."

Sherlock raised his brows in an odd mixture of boredom and mild amusement. "I'm surprised to see you so enthusiastic, Mycroft."

"Really? You mean you deliberately got me a gift you thought I wouldn't enjoy?" he retorted, with no small amount of satisfaction.

Sherlock studied the corsets intently, in lieu of an answer. Mycroft smirked.

Ms McLayne returned with some tea and biscuits and explained the process to them. Once Mycroft had selected a style and fabric for the corset, she'd take extensive measurements. If he was similar in size to any of their ready-to-wear styles, he could try them on to get a feel for the cut and shape of the design.

"Most men choose the underbust style," she said, "although the overbust style can also be tailored with a flat chest that simply rises higher in the front."

"I think I'd be most interested in the underbust style," Mycroft replied. "More of a waist cincher." He'd done his research online before they'd come. It wouldn't do to be unprepared.

"Very good. We have some fabrics that are particularly popular with many of our male clients; wool blends in pinstripes. The effect is not unlike a nice suit."

"Hm," Mycroft mused, "thank you, but I think I'd prefer one of the silk brocade ones."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Very good," she said, and proceeded to open a different drawer containing more examples of waist cinchers. "This model is very popular. It's cut rather high at the bottom, which allows it to be worn comfortably under clothing."

"A useful feature, I'm sure," Mycroft replied. _And one I doubt will be necessary_ , he thought.

He selected a style that allowed for maximum flexibility. He wanted to be able to fuck Sherlock senseless while wearing it, after all.

"Now, as far as fabric choices…" she started, and retrieved a book full of samples. It contained everything from jewel toned silks and satins to understated cotton prints and wool suiting material.

Mycroft smiled, and almost immediately settled on two; a royal blue silk, and a matching blue silk brocade with a delicate, spider chrysanthemum design executed in a shimmering silver.

"I'd like the patterned fabric as an inset surrounding the busk and the lacing, with the solid blue at the sides."

"Of course, sir. I think that will look lovely."

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had any idea of the significance behind his choice. The fabric was stunning, of course, but the chrysanthemum symbolised imperialism and also held connotations of male homosexuality. He smiled at the thought. _Sherlock probably has no idea. Even if he once did, it doesn't seem like something he'd bother to keep in his mind palace._

She took him back to a separate area where she took his measurements. Sherlock watched with a look of faint amusement.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she said, apologetically, "but we don't have anything here that will fit you at the moment. I have something close, but it would be too large, even tightly laced. But I can assure you the finished corset will fit properly."

 _That's perfect_ , Mycroft thought. _The less Sherlock sees now, the greater the effect will be later._ "Of course that's not a problem," he replied. "When should I expect it to be complete?"

"Between two and three weeks, sir."

_Plenty of time._

After they'd left, Sherlock asked him about getting the heels.

"Don't worry; I'll take care of it," he replied. He already had plans.

He phoned Ms McLayne once he got home and asked that discrete loops be added to the base of the corset with which to attach garters. Then he arranged for a private consultation with a discreet supplier of men's shoes and lingerie. This time, the visit would be _without_ Sherlock.

A week later, he was pleasantly surprised by a phone call from Ms McLayne. Somehow they'd managed to finish his corset early. Perhaps it was the small 'gratuity' he'd offered when he'd phoned back about the garters. He did want to surprise Sherlock, after all. His brother wasn't expecting him to make his grand presentation for another week, at least.

He came home from work on Friday, eager to try on the whole ensemble. He'd picked up the corset that afternoon, and he'd been half-hard the entire ride home.

He laid the box containing the corset on the bed and retrieved the other items from his cupboard. The shoes, stockings and garters, and panties each rested in their own box, carefully packed in tissue paper. He'd gotten more than one pair of the panties. It seemed like a second pair might be _necessary_.

He surveyed the boxes and then took a deep, anticipatory breath before he removed the items. He licked his lips, and his heart thudded in his chest as he removed the corset from its box. It was stunning. It was _exactly_ what he'd hoped.

He stripped off his clothes, forcing himself to take his time and fold them neatly on the bed.

Then he removed the rest of the items from their boxes.

He slid his foot into one of the cream-coloured silk stockings and smoothed it over his calf and towards his groin. He sucked in a breath when his fingers graced the inside of his thighs as he pulled the stocking into place. The elaborate lace top fit perfectly around his thigh and the plain silk highlighted the well-defined muscles of his legs.

The light curly hair of his legs was slightly visible if you looked hard enough, but he didn't mind. The object here was not femininity. It was power.

He put on the second stocking as slowly and carefully as the first, and then attached the matching silk garters. They temporarily fluttered uselessly around his thighs.

The panties were next. Silk, _of course._ They were cut in a fairly modest bikini shape that skimmed low across his hips; their delicate cream perfectly matched the hue of the stockings. He stood as he pulled them over his legs and eased them into place. They covered and contained his cock - in this state, at least; he wasn't completely hard. With a full erection, it would be impossible. He smiled to himself. _Somehow, I don't think that will matter._

He removed the corset from its tissue-paper nest. _Stunning._ The smooth, dark-blue silk contrasted beautifully with the embellished sections, just as he'd hoped. And the softness of the fabric balanced the magnificent solidity of the steel boning. He loosened the laces and unhooked the five posts of the busk, then he wrapped the exquisite silk armour around his waist.

He pulled the laces snug, then he clipped the bottom post of the busk into its slot and used it as a pivot to lock the other four into place.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror as he prepared to lace the corset. In theory, it was easy - work first from the top, and then from the bottom, pulling each section of the lace snug while moving the slack closer to the centre. But in practice, it was far from simple. The lacing segments were difficult to differentiate in the mirror, and by the time he'd finished, both of his shoulders had started to ache from reaching behind his back for so long and twisting to see what he was doing.

It was awkward, doing this alone. It was possible, certainly, but it would be much easier with two people.

Two people.

If this went as he hoped, Sherlock would _beg_ to assist him in the future. _And isn't that a lovely thought,_ he smiled. It made him forget all about the mild ache in his shoulders.

When he'd finished, he had two long loops of laces. He repositioned the corset one last time, making sure it was fitted properly around his waist. Then, very slowly, he pulled the laces tight.

The corset exerted pressure from all sides. Surrounding him. Gripping him. He felt unexpectedly comforted by it. As he continued to tighten the laces ( _Not too tight at first_ , she'd told him), his body began to transform. Straight lines became subtle curves. His breathing, while unhindered, was more focused. The corset forced his posture into a more commanding pose and pressed against his lower ribs in a surprisingly pleasing manner. He tightened it a little further, and marvelled at the newfound shape of his waist. Then he tied the laces into a bow and stood back to take a look.

The blue silk was stunning against his skin, and he smoothed his hands over it. His skin lit up like a trail of fireworks beneath his touch. Even the lightest brush of his fingertips made his skin tingle. He ran his fingers down the steel boning; he felt nothing along their length - the metal didn't magnify (or even transmit) his touch like the fabric did - but they exuded a quiet strength.

It was beautiful, and powerful, and it made his own body feel almost alien. He could see now why people did this; it was an intoxicating combination of body modification and self-bondage. And he loved it.

He hadn't been this aware of his body since puberty.

He took a dangling garter and attached it to the corset. Then, realising his mistake, he laughed, unhooked it, and threaded it beneath the silk panties first. _That would have been disastrous._ He repeated the process with the rest of them; the garters pulled the stockings up into peaks on either side of his leg. _Lovely._

He was achingly, almost unbearably hard. He had been since he'd finished lacing the corset. The panties were nowhere near roomy enough now. His cock was full and heavy against his pelvis, and the deep-red head of it jutted out from the top of the cream silk panties.

He willed his mind to ignore his lust temporarily. There was one more thing. He returned to the bed and removed the matching cream-coloured heels from their box; closed-toe three-inch d'Orsay stilettos. He crouched and placed them carefully on the floor. Bending over _was_ possible - the corset didn't completely preclude it - but it was not the most comfortable position in the world, and certainly not with an erection.

He gingerly stepped into them and fought the immediate inclination to pitch forward. _Bloody hell._ Standing up straight, he assessed their impact on his body. They tipped his pelvis upward and strained new and interesting muscles in his thighs, and there was a great deal of pressure on the balls of his feet. His toes, normally uninvolved in maintaining his balance, took a sudden, necessary interest in the proceedings. He took a few hesitant steps. They were surprisingly stable.

 _And they'll give me another three inches on Sherlock_ ,he thought _._ The height difference could potentially irritate his brother, but he suspected it would once again trigger the submissive tendencies he'd shown the other day.

He walked towards the mirror and noted how differently his body moved. Almost sinuously. His hips swayed when he walked. It was… _different. Powerful and different._

Sherlock had started this little game. A corset; high heels. _Calculated to embarrass me_. He strode back across the room, more sure of his footing now, in more than one sense. _It doesn't feel embarrassing in the least._ His face lit up as he realised he had the perfect accessory. After crouching (very carefully) to retrieve it, he surveyed his image in the mirror once more. _Perfect._ The riding crop would leave no doubt in Sherlock's mind as to which role he would take in this little game.

The creamy, freckled skin of his chest had flushed pink with arousal. _Is it the corset? The idea of Sherlock's submission?_ The heels and lingerie were nice additions, but it was the other two things that really made his gut throb. He dropped the riding crop to the floor and ran both hands down his sides and across his bound abdomen. He gave himself over to the heightened sensations of his own touch and realised he couldn't deny himself any longer.

He leaned back against the bedroom wall, dug his stiletto heels into the plush carpet, and _(God, finally)_ slid his hand beneath the delicate silk of the panties. He gasped as he touched his hot skin, but the corset pressed back against him, reminding him that he no longer had complete control over his own body. His fingers closed around his painfully hard cock, and he moaned as he started to slowly fuck his palm. Sighing, he ran his thumb across the head, slick with pre-ejaculate, and pressed the pad of his thumb against the slit. He rubbed small circles there, teasing himself for as long as he could stand it before stroking himself firmly back down to his base. The sweet friction sent pleasure running down his spine, and he threw his head back against the wall. His breath came in short gasps now, and his hand moved faster, almost of its own volition. He thrust his other hand down into the silk panties and massaged his balls, already tight and hard against him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this turned on while he was alone.

He paused just long enough to shove the underwear onto his thighs and stroked himself harder. His mind filled with images of Sherlock on his knees, begging to help lace the corset. _Begging for a taste of my cock._ And it was that thought that sent him over the edge. As the blinding rush of orgasm tore through him, vision whiting out at the edges, his only thought was ' _Don't get any on the corset.'_

He would have collapsed against the wall in exhaustion if the corset had permitted it. As it was, he could only lean against it in a well-postured slump.

He laughed out loud.

Sherlock had unwittingly bought him a new kink for his birthday.

* * *

_To be continued (on day 8)..._


	6. Day 7 - Creative Sexual Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts himself in a compromising position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Deklava for the beta!  
>  **Warnings** : sibling incest

_Mycrokft. I need your assistanbce with some4thing. Immrediately. -SH_

_I'll come by this evening. Some of us have to work for a living. What on earth is wrong with your typing? -MH_

_You'll waqnt to see thios. Trust me3. I've almnost giot it. I just needaaaaerfaveraf_

Mycroft stared at his phone in confusion; it wasn't like Sherlock to send texts in gibberish. Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

_Damn it all. Now I have to start all over again. Just get over here. -SH_

_Where's John? -MH_

_Don't know, don't really care. He's not here, and I wouldn't want his help with this anyway. -SH_

Oh. _That_ sort of assistance. It was almost time to leave anyway.

He checked his calendar - empty for the rest of the day - and informed Anthea that he'd be leaving the office early.

"Enjoy your evening, sir."

"Thank you," he replied, sincerely hoping that would be the case.

He let himself into 221 with his key and made his way upstairs. When he knocked on the door to the flat, he heard a muffled response.

"Just get in here, Mycroft. It's open."

He rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock would be rude to someone he'd already inconvenienced. He walked inside to an apparently empty flat, but sounds of scuffling and the occasional 'thud' emanated from the bedroom.

"What on earth are you… Oh good Lord," Mycroft muttered as he walked into Sherlock's room. He observed his brother with a mix of fascination and amusement and raised a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

Sherlock lay on his back with his body curled above him into a C-shape. His feet rested just above his head, on the headboard. His spine was doing something a chiropractor would either be very impressed with or utterly horrified by - he wasn't sure. Most notably, Sherlock's semi-erect cock dangled tantalisingly close to his mouth as he tried in vain to pull his thighs closer to his chest.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said with barely disguised mirth, "Auto-fellatio? Really?"

"It's possible," he said, straining to reach. "I've seen it done. I just need…" he stretched his tongue out as far as he could manage, but it still wasn't far enough. "… some assistance."

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's phone, within reach on the bed. "You texted me while you were doing this? No wonder your spelling was so bad."

"Come on," Sherlock urged, "shut up and help me already. I can't stay in this position forever."

"Hm, I suppose not," Mycroft smirked. He took his time as he wandered closer to Sherlock's side of the bed. "So, all you need _me_ to do is this…" he pushed gently on Sherlock's thighs, pushing his cock almost - but not quite - within reach of his mouth. It was quite clear that Sherlock's spine could take the half-inch or so more; he just chose not to. It wouldn't do to give Sherlock everything he wanted all at once.

"God yes, Mycroft! Just a little more!" he pleaded. He tried to reach up and grab his thighs, but he couldn't do it without losing his already precarious balance.

Mycroft released the pressure on his thighs and Sherlock nearly screamed in frustration. "Why?" he begged.

"Oh, Sherlock. You don't think just getting it in your mouth would be enough to get you off, do you? I think you're going to need a little more help than that. I'm sure auto-fellatio is a useful skill to master, but your neck is going to get awfully sore if that's the only stimulation you have."

Sherlock braced his feet on the headboard and relaxed a little, then resorted to stroking his cock in frustration.

Mycroft opened the drawer in the bedside table.

"Are you going to help me or not, Mycroft?"

"Oh, yes, of course I'll help you. I wouldn't want to leave you in this state; not when you're _so_ close to succeeding." His voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm as he rifled through the drawer. "Ah. Here we go." He picked up a c-shaped prostate massager and some lube.

"Mycroft, stop being such a tease and… ohhh." He lapsed into silence as he glanced over and saw what Mycroft had in his hand.

"It's almost the same shape as your back at the moment," Mycroft said brightly.

"Why didn't _I_ fucking think of that?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Even if you had, dear brother, you still don't seem capable of getting close enough to your mouth, do you? You'll still need me to help you with that."

Sherlock mumbled something irritated and noncommittal as Mycroft slicked up the toy, but his mutterings turned into a deeply sensual groan as Mycroft slid the buzzing massager deep into his arse. The other half of the toy rested against his perineum, transmitting the vibrations to the sensitive area below his balls. Even in his precarious position, Sherlock squirmed at the intense sensation.

Before Sherlock could say anything else, Mycroft slowly pressed his thighs low enough that he could take his own cock in his mouth.

He wrapped his mouth around it with delight, sucking hard at first, then making it wetter with slobbering kisses as Mycroft held him in position. Mycroft let up on his legs slightly and his cock bobbed back out of reach.

"No!" he practically shouted.

"What do you say?" Mycroft taunted.

"Please!"

"Please what?"

"Please let me have my cock in my mouth!"

"Mm, that's better." Mycroft pushed his legs back down and Sherlock hungrily latched on again. "Look at you, Sherlock, so greedy for your own cock. If I'd known you could do this, I could have saved myself a lot of effort over the years."

Sherlock barely seemed to hear him, lost in the sensation of finally getting his cock in his own mouth.

Mycroft observed him with amusement and enjoyed the few minutes of relative peace, except for the eager slurping sounds of wet mouth on wet cock. Something was off, though; his brother didn't seem to be squirming nearly enough. After a brief mental diagram, he realised that the ridiculous curvature of brother's back made the prostate massager less effective. It was probably barely touching the sensitive gland, if it was even touching it at all.

Well, he could fix that.

He repositioned himself so he could keep Sherlock's thighs down with one arm; now he had a free hand. He sucked a finger into his mouth - Sherlock's hole already glistened with plenty of lube from the toy. Then, without warning, Mycroft pressed his finger into Sherlock's arse and slid it in behind the massager. He pressed the toy against Sherlock's prostate with almost brutal precision, and his brother practically screamed with pleasure, even with his own cock stuffing his mouth.

Mycroft gave him a wicked grin. "How does _that_ feel, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just moaned something unintelligible and writhed on the bed.

"See, so much better with the toy isn't it? I'll have you coming down your own throat in no time." His brother's hips jerked reflexively at his words, and Mycroft smirked. "I should have known you'd get off on the idea."

When Sherlock seemed close to orgasm, he released the pressure on the toy. Sherlock made another unintelligible noise, this one far less pleasurable. Mycroft bent his head down so he could see Sherlock's face and smiled sweetly. "What was that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes wide and tried to glare, but with his cock stretching his lips tight, the effect was comical.

"Oh, you wanted _this_?" Mycroft said, innocently, and pressed the toy back against his sweet spot.

His brother's eyes fluttered closed, and a second later he resumed sucking himself in earnest.

Mycroft let him come back to a boil, and was about to deny him again, when he heard the faint sound of the front door being unlocked.

"Fuck," he muttered, and yanked his finger out of Sherlock's arse.

His brother opened his mouth to protest, and then realised what was going on as he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Fuck!" His legs uncurled from above his head and smacked firmly onto the bed. He groped for his clothes, but his trousers were on the other side of the room.

"Get under the bedclothes," Mycroft hissed as he wiped his hand off on Sherlock's shirt and shoved the lube back into the drawer in one smooth motion.

"But the vibrator…" Sherlock retorted, twisting his body to try and remove it. Even underneath the bedclothes, it was still vaguely audible.

"There's no time," Mycroft insisted. "Follow my lead," he added, as the front door opened. "And look ill."

The footsteps stopped.

"Sherlock?" John's voice called out. "Sherlock, are you here?"

"We're in here, John," Mycroft replied.

"Mycroft, is that you?" There were sounds of shopping being placed on the kitchen table as John headed towards the bedroom. He walked in, looking confused.

"Hello, John."

"What…" he looked at Sherlock in the bed, who looked like death warmed up. "What's going on? Is he alright?"

"Well," Mycroft replied, "Sherlock wasn't feeling well, and he thought it was appropriate to interrupt my meeting with the Prime Minister so I could bring him some aspirin and make him a cup of tea. He's feeling much better now though, aren't you Sherlock?"

On cue, Sherlock managed to look a bit less deathly ill. "Why bother you when I can irritate Mycroft?" he said, with a weak smile and a slight cough.

"You might need more than a few aspirin," John said, looking concerned. "Your face is all red and it looks like you've been sweating. Are you running a fever?" He reached his hand out to feel Sherlock's forehead.

"I think the fever's just broken, actually," Mycroft replied. "Probably the aspirin. There's a nasty little twenty-four hour thing going around at my office."

John stopped and cocked his head. After a couple of seconds, he said, "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Mycroft replied.

"Some sort of buzzing noise."

Mycroft pretended to listen for a few seconds. "No, I don't hear anything. Do you, Sherlock?"

His brother shook his head. "No."

"I'm _sure_ I can hear something."

"Perhaps it's the fridge," Sherlock ventured. "It was making an awful noise earlier, but I gave it a shove and it stopped. I've been meaning to mention it to Mrs Hudson."

"Huh. I'll go and have a look."

The second he walked out of the room, Sherlock pulled the buzzing vibrator from his arse and fumbled to turn the thing off. Mycroft shoved it into a tissue and slid it into the drawer a moment before John returned.

"No, the fridge was fine." He paused again, with a look of utter confusion on his face. "That's odd; I don't hear it anymore." He shrugged. "I must be getting old. Do either of you want any tea? It might make you feel better, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, thanks."

John looked at Mycroft, who replied, "No, I really must be off, thank you."

"Right, just one then. Back in a bit."

Sherlock smiled and then rounded on his brother as John left the room. "Twenty-four hour flu, Mycroft? Really?"

"It worked, didn't it? Besides, you're on the mend. I imagine, what… six or eight hours should do the trick? Perhaps tonight as well if you want to be really convincing."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "I suppose it could have been worse. He could have walked in on us."

"Indeed, and that was _quite_ a compromising position you were in. I'm sorry you didn't get to finish today," he said, pressing on Sherlock's groin through the bedclothes. "But I promise I'll make it up to you," he added, and ran his tongue along the corner of his upper lip.

"Tease," Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft glanced towards the door to make sure John wasn't there, leaned down, and gave his brother a filthy kiss. "Next time, we'll do a little experiment and find out which you like better: me coming down your throat, or you…"

Sherlock threw Mycroft a lust-filled grin as his brother gathered up his coat and headed towards the door.


End file.
